


Learning Curve

by LucidlyLost



Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game), The Boy (2016 Bell)
Genre: Established Headcanons, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27001594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucidlyLost/pseuds/LucidlyLost
Summary: Claudette Morel has taken up a job to try and rid herself of her problems from home, thinking that the solitude and the opportunity to have some time to herself would make everything a little bit better. Open grounds for gardens, nobody pestering her for her life plans, and no parents that make her feel guilty. Perfect stress relief, right?Well.Every garden has its admirer.
Relationships: Brahms Heelshire/Claudette Morel
Comments: 16
Kudos: 28





	Learning Curve

**Author's Note:**

> absolutely for self fulfillment. if you enjoy it, good for you! have fun and maybe give me some comments

Claudette remembers her first day at the Heelshire Manor. There had been semi-awkward introductions, side-eyes, and a suspicious amount of whispering when she left rooms. Of course, all of that had been forgotten once she had gotten a good look at her charge. No, nothing could have possibly been so jarring as  _ him _ .

The boy.

He’d been so carefully crafted, the heavy porcelain that set his features seemingly wont to mimic an uncanny valley’s version of what a little boy might look like. Dark hair, paper-white ‘skin’, and pale brown eyes made up the face of the doll, an appropriately-sized suit fitting snugly on his little shoulders. She’d been fascinated by him the moment she’d lain eyes on him. His…  _ parents  _ had given her a set of instructions and rules for interacting with him.  _ Brahms _ , that was. A peculiar name, one that fit oddly on her tongue like so many of the latin words she’d learned in her studies. 

She remembers how the elder Heelshires looked at her with such fear and sorrow hidden behind the stiff exteriors they brandished. Despite the awkwardness at first seeing the doll, she’d quickly made up for it with sweet smiles and quiet promises of care. Malcolm (the grocery man) had initially seemed charming, but his advances were brushed off like any annoying vine in lieu of her intrigue of the house and its history. The grounds were extensive, and she was given full permission to try and revive the garden. Mrs. and Mr. Heelshire seemed almost… relieved at her curiosity and cautious determination to see this through.. Of course, it made sense. Being a nanny for a  _ doll  _ that they claimed to be their son most likely didn’t bring in very many prospects. Then again, it’s not like they made it seem very attractive to begin with.

_ “I’m so sorry.” _

Mrs. Heelshire’s last parting words, and they were an apology. It’d been a little startling, the words still ringing gently in her ears as she waved the aged car goodbye. Why would she be saying sorry? It couldn’t have been that bad of a job. Being a nanny hadn’t ever been Claudette’s first choice of job, no, but she had needed the solitude. The quiet, the trees…

Well, let's just say home was a wildfire.

And even now she still missed it.

The phone’s cord twisted silently around her index finger, the cool black plastic resting comfortably on her shoulder as she looked out her bedroom’s window. “No, dad, I’m fine. It’s been a strange few months, but nothing terrible. Malcom’s been letting me ask for things from town, and the flowers I planted have started to show their shoots.” 

_ “I know, sweetpea. You always make the best of things, in the end.”  _ There was a small pause, faint pops of static occasionally slipping into the call.  _ “I’m proud of you, Claudette. So, so proud of you. Your mom is too, she’s just…” _

“She’s just busy,” Claudette finished, sighing quietly into the receiver. “I know. She’s doing great things. I just wish she would make more time for us.”

Her father chuckled, a tired sound that made her heart ache for late nights in his study poring over translations and talking about history within the forest.  _ “I do too. I wish I could come visit you. But those, uh, rules of yours--” _

“Mhm. No guests, or something. I mean, I  _ get  _ it, they probably don’t want to come back to their house trashed or missing stuff. It’s really, really old. I could probably find an actual skeleton in a closet if I looked hard enough.” 

_ “Ha, yeah. I bet that doll of yours would know.” _

She paused, shifting the phone so that she could look at the door of her bedroom. Across the hall was the room of said doll, Brahms. A tooth worried at her lip as she mulled over her words, the familiar feeling of eyes on her making her skin grow a chill. “Brahms… is something alright. He’s doing good, so things are going smoothly. Even if he  _ did  _ know about any supposed skeletons, I don’t really think he’d be able to tell me.”

A hum. _ “Well, I’m glad that you’re handling it well. I don’t think I’d be able to do something like that for as many months as you’ve signed up. Speaking of, I got another assignment coming up next week. I gotta pack in the morning, so…” _

A rush of bitterness squeezed her heart as she heard those words, sucking in a breath. It meant that the only person she talked to regularly anymore was going back into the wilderness to save lives. It also meant she wouldn’t have access to him the entire time he was there, which could be up to a year long. “Got it, I’ll let you go then.”

_ “...I love you, Claudette. You’re my most favorite person in the world.” _

She tried to memorize the words, memorize the sound of her father’s voice. “Love you too, daddy. Come back soon.” 

_ “À demain.” _

“À demain, papa.”

The handset clicked gently into place back onto the switch of the phone, her hands lightly placing it back onto her nightstand. She stared at the dark wood, willing away the tears in her eyes as her breathing steadied. She wasn’t mad at him. Couldn’t be. This was his life’s purpose, his entire joy when it came to his work. He’d been doing it for as long as she had lived, and she knew that this was what made him happy. If only her mother could see it the same way.

The silence settled over her like a much-too heavy blanket, and quickly it became insufferable. Socked feet swung over the side of the bed, and with a slight jump she reached the hardwood floor. The chill didn’t bother her-- it made her remember where she was. Grounded her, kept her from staying too long in her head. Carefully, she lifted the candle holder that sat upon the top of the fireplace, holding it out in front of her as she crept out into the hallway. She looked both ways, as if to see if she was to be seen before she caught herself. With a half-smile, she continued down the corridor towards the stars, teasing herself for thinking that someone was watching her.

There was no way she was going to be able to sleep after that call. A shame, since she had to be up so early. But, she knew herself, and she knew that she was agitated enough that rest was going to be futile. If she was going to be awake though, she might as well be productive. She paused, glancing around before stepping into the kitchen.

A deep mug, white and webbed with miniscule cracks, found itself in her hands. A single scoop of sugar, with some type of tea resting at the bottom, the water turning a clouded yellow as the scent of chamomile drifted up in the steam. Claudette always liked to play a game whenever she found herself unable to sleep at night; she’d peruse her tea jar (a simple mason jar packed with various tea bags from different packages) and depending on what she made, that would be her choice of tea for the evening. It was a little funny how she managed to pick chamomile-- even with its purported benefits, it would only work to calm her with its warmth on this night. 

Mug in one hand, candle in the other, she made her way back into the sitting room. The library and study combined to make her favorite room in the house, aged couches and loveseats ready to welcome any peruser with a few squeaks. It also made sure to provide Brahms a place for his studies and for… music appreciation, or whatever Mrs. Heelshire had called it. Claudette didn’t mind reading to him-- while non-fiction was her strong suit, there was just something about far away lands and fictional worlds that made her troubles melt away. It was so easy to fall into the role of the protagonist, to see the words as more than just descriptions. However, she’d drawn the line at  _ operatics _ . She was able to listen for the first day. And then the second. But the second  _ week _ _?_ She’d been lucky that Malcom let her add things to the grocery list. A handwritten list of some of her favorite records and a week later, she had some new additions to the Heelshire music collection. 

She’d been unsure of playing them for Brahms at first. It was odd. It wasn’t like the doll could actually hear anything but… 

_ Disappearing food. Footsteps when she was alone. Things going missing. Her flowers. _

Claudette jolted as the house creaked, blinking away her thoughts and instead shooting a curious look towards the ceiling. “Looks like neither one of us can settle down tonight, hm?” She set the mug down on the coffee table, the candle being held to the side as she stepped towards the wall of books. Brown irises roved the titles until she settled on a pale blue tome, eyes lighting up at the gold filigree lining the spine. With a hum, she slipped it from its place, gently settling it and the candle holder down next to her cup. She turned towards the old record player, lifting the lid and setting up the needle. There was already a record set upon the turntable, a favorite of hers that she assumed was mostly acceptable. Somber, summertime memories trapped within vinyl. Frank Sinatra, a voice that swept away stresses and odd speculation all the same. Some of the other records she’d played for the doll had seemed to… disappear, oddly enough. She didn’t question it. Didn’t even think about it. That led to questions about things that kept her up far worse than missing parents and she didn’t have time to do any of that again. 

She remembered the time, the only time, she just… didn’t follow the rules. Completely neglected the schedule. There wasn’t any real reason to. Sure, some would say it was meaningless, and how would the couple who hired her find out anyways? Claudette valued integrity, though, and no matter how off the place seemed, she wanted to keep her promise of taking care of their son. Even if their son happened to be a porcelain doll. But then again, that was before she’d heard it.

Or rather,  _ him _ .

It had been the one and only time she’d ever truly seen, or rather  _ met _ , Brahms. It’d been a long day, and she had spent most of it outside with the doll sitting on some stones as she cleared out the gardens. She’d been paying careful attention to the schedule since the day she had arrived, but the grounds had taken up so much of her attention that she had missed his studies completely. 

Claudette had strode inside, apologizing to Brahms about missing music time and promising to give him more the next day, cutting free time in half if he’d liked. She’d felt guilty and it wasn’t just because she’d messed up. Even if the doll couldn’t talk back, Claudette genuinely enjoyed interacting with it and speaking to it each day. It’s not like it could insult her for her abilities, or attempt to get close to her for her money. And, call it odd, but she saw it as close a friend as she’d ever had. Taking away something that the matron Heelshire had deemed important to him had felt like a punch to the gut. 

She had set him down, careful to take off her gloves and wash her hands. Muttering about getting a timer, it had taken her only a few minutes to clean up before returning to the sitting room where she’d left him. Of course, imagine her surprise when the doll wasn’t sitting on the settee, but instead sat politely in the doorway to the hall, head tilted at her as if she was the one out of place. After a few moments of staring, she had walked over, carefully picking him up and murmuring a  _ “how did you get here?”  _ when a loud thud resounded from upstairs. 

It had taken a good ten minutes for her to figure out what to do, staring wide-eyed up at the gap in the stairs as if it would hold answers. After quickly deducing that, yes, staying still with a possible intruder in the house was a dumb idea, she gathered up Brahms in her arms and crept up the stairs, glancing around the corners as if some ghost would be waiting for her. Instead, everything was in place. All the paintings were still, the windows closed, the doors… Well. All but one.

Hers. 

It had scared her, to walk in and see all of her things strewn about like a hurricane had come in and decided it wanted a yard sale. Nothing was torn or destroyed, no-- rather bunched and hung in odd places like someone had thrown it. The only thing missing was her spare glasses, which she had assumed had been lost somewhere in the chaos. 

And she looked everywhere. Every nook and cranny, Brahms tucked safely in her arms as she did. But nothing. Nobody. Not even a wild animal. If something had been in her room, it had disappeared just as quickly. And it made no sense! Nothing could make such a mess of her room like that and leave just as quickly. Not even ghosts. And then came the thought.  _ Ghosts?  _

Mind you, Claudette wasn’t the superstitious type. Wasn’t even religious, when it came down to it. But as more and more little things came up, things that she definitely didn’t do, it only made her more paranoid to the possibility. When she tucked Brahms in that night, she roamed the house, searching for… something. Anything that might make logical sense, rational sense. And nothing, not one thing offered an explanation. So when she eventually went to sleep, restless and distracted, it was no surprise when she woke up to darkness, breathing fast and blinking away nightmares. She’d huffed, ready to turn and search for the matches to relight the candles.

Something breathed  _ back _ . 

Claudette didn’t remember much of that night. Only knowing that when she woke up, her spare glasses were back on her nightstand, and Brahms was under the covers next to her. His perfect porcelain seeming to smile from under the heavy blankets. 

She turned the knob, and soft piano began crooning from the player. Grabbing her mug, she curled up on the couch, the pale blue book in her other hand. Sipping her tea, she turned the page, ignoring the odd shadows from the candle. Her experiment afterwards had answered all the questions she needed to ask, and then some. Seeing Brahms next to her after that ordeal, well-- it only made one question things. Could Brahms have done this? Was he somehow capable of manipulating the area around him? She hadn’t known. And so, she conducted a very scientific study by simply not doing what was expected of her. Only breakfast and dinner, and only for herself. Claudette hadn’t even tucked him in, just left him in the sitting room where he’d been put at the beginning of the day. Had it been stupid? Yes. Had she known it was stupid? Yes. Did she get the results she’d wanted?

_ Icy porcelain. Warm hands. Sounds in the night too close for comfort. Waking up to those same brown eyes, in the same place. Phantom caresses. _

Claudette set her mug down, ignoring the tremble in her hands. The tea was cold anyway. Yes, she remembered it clearly. And, superstitious or not, Brahms had been involved in whatever happened that night. And  _ continued  _ to be involved. She would wake up to certain things placed on the counter for her to cook, or records to play. Books to read. So on and so on. And again, she was thorough. Nobody hiding in any closets, no glowing eyes staring out in the shadows, nothing. She simply had to accept that, despite her beliefs, her charge was in some way… alive. And vividly so.

The words on the page dimly rang in her mind as her thoughts continued to run, brow furrowing as the candlelight dimmed. It had been resolved in her mind that she would continue to follow the rules and schedule set out for her, introducing new things slowly and with caution. This job had turned into more than just some stint for money-- it was an experiment. And she was learning more and more each day. Brahms enjoyed sweet things. He liked most of her music, but not all. The days she went outside in the garden for long stretches of time were the day she would wake up to the doll in her room. Not always next to her, but always watching. She’d tried admonishing him, telling him that bed time meant he needed to stay in bed, but gave up after a week of waking up to pale smiles and mischievous eyes. And lastly, he always made sure that she followed the rules. The slightest variation or neglect usually ended with some small tantrum or mess for her to clean. But he was a good boy, mostly. Open to trying new things, open to her and her questions. Whenever she tried to get Brahms to move, she was met with minimal success. But if she asked him to, say, bring her a flower from the garden? She would find one, still wet with dew, on a countertop or on one of her pillows.

The book slipped into her lap, Claudette’s eyes blinking slowly. “Well--” she began with a yawn, “I suppose I’ll sleep tonight after all.” Setting the book on the nightstand, she fumbled for the candle, blowing it out and putting it back down in the same breath. Her glasses followed, finding their place next to the mug as she burrowed into the deep cushions of the couch. After a moment, she pulled on the blanket that was draped over the back, sighing happily as she wrapped it around herself. Closing her eyes brought no difference to her sight with the lack of candlelight, but it did banish the infinite darkness that old houses always seemed to have. She’d most likely wake up before her alarm was supposed to go off-- she always did, most days. 

Quickly, with her mind full, Claudette Morel drifted off to sleep, curls skewed over her cheek and the edge of the blanket. Soon, a set of pale fingers drifted over her skin, tucking her hair behind her ear and gently tracing the shape of her lips.

She did not wake.


End file.
